Next
by Sadie Flood
Summary: Rule 1: Both parties are encouraged to date other people. Rule 2: No public meetings. Rule 3: All private meetings must end no later than 4:05am. Rule 4: Don't flirt. Rule 5: Keep the secret... at all costs. [CJ/?] AU. PG13 for language.
1. 1

AN: This is my first attempt to write a TWW fic. All feedback and criticism would be greatly appreciated. :) This is AU--the finale didn't happen, no Simon Donovan, no Amy-getting-fired. 

~~~~

"I hate this."  
  
"You hate this?" She sounds tolerantly alarmed, if it's possible--do you know what I mean? She sounds like she knows I meant for her to be alarmed, but she also knows that there's nothing to really be alarmed about. I can't see her face. It's all in her voice.  
  
"Not this," I clarify. "It's just that I'm such a fucking cliché now."  
  
She doesn't say anything.  
  
"I mean, that was my yearbook quote, you know? 'I want to be anything but a cliché.'"  
  
"That was your yearbook quote?"  
  
"No."  
  
She rolls over, propping up on her elbows. I know what's coming now. "What was it, then?"  
  
"No, no, no," I protest. "I'm not telling."  
  
"Come on," she says. I can't figure out if it's a command. It doesn't matter. "I won't laugh." Of course she will. "It can't be that bad."  
  
I sigh deeply before admitting: "Razors pain you, rivers are damp. Acids stain you, and drugs cause cramp. Guns aren't lawful, nooses give. Gas smells awful; you might as well live."  
  
She raises both eyebrows. I think it's bemusement. "Dorothy Parker."   
  
"Yes." She stares at me for a minute. "You're laughing. It's terrible."  
  
"No," she says, laughing just a little. "It's absolutely perfect."  
  
"It's so melodramatic."  
  
"It's perfect," she repeats.  
  
"So now it's your turn to tell me something hideously embarrassing," I remind her.  
  
"Oh, God," she laughs, flat on her back again and the room is silent for another minute as she thinks back, undoubtedly trying to find something that's just embarrassing enough to be intimate but not embarrassing enough to be, you know, actually embarrassing. "All right," she finally offers. "You can't tell a soul."  
  
"Dot and I will keep your secret," I promise.  
  
"All right," she says again. "In high school I looked like Velma. From Scooby Doo."  
  
"You did not."  
  
"I did. I thought it was a style."  
  
"The glasses and the hair?"  
  
"The glasses. And the hair. And the clothes. Except mine were black."  
  
"Counter-culture?"  
  
"I tried so hard."  
  
"All four years?"  
  
"Just the first one."  
  
"Aha, then you became the fashion queen that you are now."  
  
"Queen?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Is that a crack?"  
  
"No!" Now it's my turn to dissolve into giggles. She stomps off to my bathroom, mock-annoyed. I check my watch as the door slams shut. 4:05. Right on time. Another deep sigh. When she comes out ten minutes later, she's wearing what can only be described as a trenchcoat over a very small tank top and loose flannel pants. She pads over to her former side of the bed, searching the floor for her shoes, and I can't seem to stop from gazing at her like some lovestruck moron. I'm not lovestruck. She finds the shoes and retreats to the bathroom again before coming out a second time, this time carrying a black bag and wearing a peculiar, short brown wig that resembles nothing so much as a certain cartoon character. I laugh at the sight of her and she smiles too, tossing out a "Oh, ha, ha, ha. It's all very funny."  
  
"No, you look very cute."  
  
She mock-glares at me and comes over for a quick kiss. "I'll see you later?"  
  
"At the thing, yeah."  
  
"You'll be with--"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"See you later."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Velma."  
  
"If I had something to throw at you right now, you'd be in serious trouble."  
  
"Oh, I know it."  
  
And then she's gone. This is our routine now. This is who we are. This is what we do.  



	2. 2

Later we meet again, as predicted. We're seated fortuitously across a quite large table from each other at the house of someone whose name I never quite catch; this isn't my thing, anyway, it's his. And hers. Josh is beside me, deeply engaged in conversation with the balding man on his other side. The balding man on my other side is engaged in conversation with the man on his other side. I casually glance across the table. She's in the same situation. Why shouldn't we talk? We're peers. I'm reminded of the foundation of our relationship, or whatever it is: that voice, those words. We should have a quality conversation. Right here. Right now. About what? A pressing political issue of the day, of course. I'm quite smart. So is she. We are very intelligent. Foreign affairs? Too dry. Too touchy. I already know how she feels about foreign policy. It is important to be cool. Casual. Chaste.   
  
"So," I say in her direction. "What do you think about that vice-principal checking girls for thongs at the prom?"  
  
She's surprised. "Well." She pauses. "I didn't wear one to my prom."  
  
"You went to the prom?" Careful. Mustn't fall into that intimate tone of voice. Must be very professional.  
  
"Yes," she says defensively. "Did you?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Really? I would have thought that was too traditional for you."  
  
"I was a poser," I confess airily. "So you didn't wear a thong to your prom?" It doesn't matter. No one is listening to us. I look up one side of the table and down the other to make sure.  
  
"No."  
  
"What did you wear?"  
  
"A dress," she says dryly.  
  
"That's all?" I raise an eyebrow. I love it when she blushes. I think she likes to squirm. She changes the subject, looking for safer territory. She tells me about a book she's been reading. I want to concentrate, but I find myself simply watching her speak as my mind wanders. When does she have time to read? In the bath, perhaps. Was it late at night? Were there bubbles, or was it a utilitarian cleaning mission? No, she must have had a little time if she was reading this book. What is it about? I missed that. So it must have been late at night, and there must have been bubbles. Was a wineglass involved? Did she find purple fingerprints on her pages the next morning and wonder how they got there? No, no, stop it. I have to listen now. Just as I snap back into focus, she catches on. Damn.   
  
"You're not listening," she notes with a self-conscious smile.  
  
"No, I am, I was just" I look around again. No one is looking. I offer her what I hope is an alluring smile. Does she understand?  
  
She's blushing again. She understands perfectly. She grins back and shakes her head slowly from side to side. I know that. I wasn't suggesting we stand up and announce anything. I wasn't suggesting we make out in the closet. Though I suppose it would be appropriate. The balding man beside her finally notices her presence and begins talking to her about something. Maybe he caught the title of the late-night bath book.   
  
I lean over to Josh and give him some attention, but it's hard to keep from glancing at her. He murmurs into my ear, and I don't catch the words, just the tone. I decide to play the enigmatic object of desire, turning my full attention to him, being fully aware of the way my hair brushes against bare skin, entirely the coquette now. It's a show. It's a game. It's for her. Has she noticed? I look over again, casually. She's looking back at me. She's noticed. And it's not a game anymore, is it?   
  
I settle back into my chair like a little girl caught playing dress-up. She looks hurt. I shrug guiltily and look in another direction. She's still staring. The same man beside her, the book man, taps her on the shoulder. It takes a few taps for her to look at him. And then we pretend like nothing happened through the rest of the evening.


	3. 3

AN: Okay, help me out. Is it terrible? Is it okay? Any feedback or criticism would be completely welcomed. Even flames. :) Right now, this is the end. But if the feedback isn't too overwhelmingly apathetic or negative, maybe I'll add more. Or a sequel. 

~~~~

She didn't come over after the party. I spent the night alone.  
  
The next night I'm out with Josh, at his favorite restaurant, dimly lit, quiet music in the background, low chatter throughout the room. He's talking. I'm trying to listen. It's a bad habit, I know. But I can't keep from thinking about other things. One other thing. One other person. I twirl a bit of hair around a fingertip idly as he speaks. I wish it wasn't my own. He's talking about his day, I've gotten that much out of it. He's talking about Toby, Sam, Leo, Ginger, Bonnie, Donna. He talks about Donna often. I guess it's his way of assuring me I don't have anything to worry about there, that I should feel secure. I guess I do.  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
I nod, staring at my water glass.  
  
"You seem distracted."  
  
"I guess I am," I smile.  
  
"Hard day?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
He looks at me sympathetically. I shake my head. "I don't want to talk about it, though."  
  
"Really?" This is a surprise to him. This is our routine; it's who we are, it's what we do.  
  
"I'm just really tired. I didn't get a lot of sleep last night."  
  
"Worrying about work stuff?"  
  
God, just stop talking. You're a great talker, Josh. You're just not the talker I want to be listening to right now.  
  
"Yeah Look, it's pretty late, and I'm not feeling well, so maybe we should just skip dinner tonight."  
  
He drops me off at home. I wait until he's out of sight and slip down to the bar on the corner. I head straight into the back to the pay phone. "Hello?" Was she asleep?  
  
"C.J.?"  
  
"Yeah." She knows who it is now.  
  
"I yeah. Hey, do you think you could come over here? I'm at Duke's."  
  
A pause. "Do you think that's a good idea?"  
  
"We're friends. We should be friends. We're both extraordinarily bright women in government-related positions. It's innocent." Pause. "Please?" Fuck. I hate needy people. I especially hate being the needy person. "Yeah, look, never mind."  
  
"No," she says. "I'll be over."  
  
I start to say something, but the phone's dead now.  
  
So I wait. At the bar. For an hour.  
  
It only takes fifteen minutes to drive from her place to mine. Does she think I don't know that? Is this some kind of joke? A silly high-school revenge game? She finally blows in through the door as I'm working myself up. She pretends to look for a seat. There's no one else in the place. "I think I'll sit here," she says decisively, taking a seat one stool away from mine. The bartender leaves us alone.   
  
She waits.  
  
"I'm-you know, I'm sorry," I say, although it's not easy. I'm not sorry, exactly. She knew what she was getting into. So did I. Maybe I should have been more sensitive, but maybe not. We were trying to be completely secretive. Acting the way I had was par for the course.  
  
"For what?" I can't tell if she's fishing for something, if she wants me to grovel, or if it's an actual question. I don't respond. "I understand. I know it's what you have to do. I just wasn't expecting to be so affected by it. It's fine. It's cool. It's over." She reaches over, puts a hand on my shoulder, stares at me, lowers her voice until I can barely hear her at all. "We're fine. We are."  
  
I guess I should have expected this entire thing to be difficult. It was risky from the start.   
  
"Are we?" Maybe it's petulant. Maybe it's childish. Maybe I need to be reassured.  
  
"Aren't we?" She sounds concerned now, and moves to sit directly beside me.   
  
"Yeah." Time to drop the act. It's okay to be needy now; she already knows you're needy, you're the one who called first. "We are."  
  
And I smile. And she smiles. And we might not be fine. How long could this kind of thing last, really? Was it actually possible to keep it under wraps? But for now, we're trying to do it. We're trying to be successful. I don't know how long it needs to be a secret. Until this whole thing is over, I guess, until she goes back to being whatever it was before she became what she is now. And I'll stay with Josh for as long as I can, and when he's gone it will be someone else. Will she find a decoy, too? Will she fall in love with him? Will I? What happens then? There are just so many questions. But she has a way of cutting through all of that. It's a unique ability. I don't have it. I get muddled, my path gets hazy, I lose my way. Not her. Not ever. I admire that. I admire her.  
  
So for tonight, it's true, we are fine. And for tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, we'll be fine... 

I trust her.

~~~~

(AN: Yeah, the narrator is Amy.)  



End file.
